


Love Game Elongated

by yilloofnarwin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3780955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yilloofnarwin/pseuds/yilloofnarwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”Por eso yo te quiero dar, Rafa, mi corazón.<br/>Yo te sigo a todas partes…”</p>
<p>In a parallel world, where Rafael Nadal is simply and acceptedly in love  with Roger Federer, living, touring, winning, losing – sharing everything…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Back in time, long ago, I know, I promised, my series of 'Love Game' would be continued.  
> While I am still not far enough into writing the next chapters, today, somehow, I decided to finally post some new chapters. (Maybe it's because I drank too much cider this afternoon.)  
> In the latest months too much happened, and my view of Rafa unfortunately changed completely, based on some facts I had chosen to be ignored in the past. So it is quite difficult to write about him and Roger together now. But a wise person told me, as it is fiction, I would be the smarter author if I could lock out all things from real life knowledge, and write "my" Rafa, as I had always written him before. So I bow to this person's will, and try hard, again.  
> I hope I might get some feedback, and some new inspiration through it, from you, guys, who once liked this story!  
> Thank you for your patience - I know it took me so long to go on with Love Game!  
> On to reading - have fun! And please, share all your thoughts with me; I need it to be able to write on!  
> Love you all!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are getting on with the boys right from where Love Game's last chapter ended... they arrive in Europe after the Australian Open, in 2012.

**Villars, Switzerland, 31st of January, 2012**

* * *

 “I’m thinking… maybe we should have stayed to celebrate our anniversary in Australia. After all it happened here that we got together,” you say, tone lamenting.

I chuckle. “You say that now?” We have left the runway and are being lifted in the air. “Roger, no matter where we spend it, you know that!”

You smile at me. “Even if you will be constantly freezing?” you tease

I nod. “I have ski pants and jacket, no? I be fine!”

Exhaustion finally takes over my body and mind and I sleep through the 21 hours of flight time. The next my conscious gathers is leaving the jet and being greeted by cheek-pinching cold and a thick, almost white layer of clouds hanging over the land. And snow. Constant, lazy, never-ending snowing.

I watch you taking a deep breath. “Home,” I say, nudging your arm.

“Home.” You nod and the glow probably won’t leave your face anytime soon.

We stop by the apartement in Wollerau, to drop unnecessary luggage and pack some winter clothes instead. Then before jet lag could heavily hit us, we are off to the mountains nearby, about an hour of drive from home, to spend a few days alone, just the two of us, in peace. The little stone-and-wood chalet in the Swiss Alps is covered in snow but the roads are cleaned and safe. It has a light living room area with a huge fireplace, a very, very comfortable bed in the bedroom upstairs (it was the first thing to check!), and a loaded refrigerator in the kitchen.

“We are stocked, don’t you think?” you say, smiling tiredly.

I nod. “Jet lag kicking in, sí? I am fine, I make food, then we can go to bed, no?”

“It’s a plan,” you agree and I’m getting some penne and jarred Bolognese sauce out of the cupboards. “It will do?” I ask and you nod, moving slowly, but still around, trying to free a pan from a pile of them neatly hung above the kitchen isle.

“Rogi… you go sit! I do this!” You don’t argue and sit on a bar chair beside the isle.

“You played 6 hours, then had a 20 hours flight and you are still fitter than me,” you sigh, head held in one of your palms, elbow on the counter.

I laugh. “Anciano!”

“That sounds like ancient,” you guess.

“Sí, it mean very old person,” I grin and drop the pasta in the boiling water. “And what you say is not the true. You play on for Davis Cup and I need the two week off tennis, no forget that!”

We eat mostly in silence, none of us having the strength to chatter anymore. You are tired enough not wanting to open even a bottle of wine to the meal and that says a lot! Though you offer cleaning the table and putting dishes away, I say a definite ‘no’, and send you to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Breathing already even, you are lying under the thick blankets when I enter the bedroom. I open the curtains – we didn’t bring my safe lamp for these few days –, then climb in bed beside you, ready to press my body to yours, keeping us warm through the chilly winter night.

“You had me worried there, during the ceremony, you know,” you murmur, pulling me as close as you can. “I thought you would really collapse… Wanted to run down there and bring you a chair!”

I grin and brush my lips over your forehead. “Rog, I no wanna talk about the final no more! No wanna hear about tennis now!”

You utter a deep rumbling sound that must be chuckles. “This is a good place for that. No press, no news.”

“Sí. You choose well. But I no want to ski, Roger!”

I feel your shoulder jerk in a shrug. “I don’t wanna go to ski either. This is my big year, I don’t want a broken limb. But one day I really teach you how to ski!”

“You keep say that, about big year.”

“Hmm, ja. You’ll see when it’s time! Now sleep!” you smile, giving a good night kiss on my lips.

 

**Villars, Switzerland, 1st of February, 2012**

* * *

February begins with a wonderful morning. Well, early afternoon, for we slept through half of the day. The landscape is fascinating, the snowing stopped; I stare at the view from the balcony, at the white-covered village and mountains, and I’m so happy to be here, despite of the bone-freezing cold. I remind myself I have to stop whinging about that, even though you find it comical.

“Happy anniversary!” you say, coming behind me and holding out a mug of hot chocolate.

Wide smile breaks out on my face and I take the cup to taste the warm drink. It’s divine. “Three years go fast, no?” I lament, sipping carefully, not to burn my tongue. “¡Feliz aniversario, Rogelio!”

You giggle as your arms sneak around me, pulling me back to your body, tight, hands holding on my waist, lips ghosting over one side of my neck. “What do you wanna do today?”

I snort and some of the choco almost come back through my nose. “Do not tell me you no prepare nothing, Rog! I know you!”

“Okay, maybe I did prepare something. But isn’t there anything you would like to do?”

“Sí. Can we go see the candy shop I saw in the village?” I turn my head to look at you with my most hopeful expression.

“God, those puppy eyes!” you chuckle. “Of course you found the candy shop right away! Well, more chocolate it is then. We can also have lunch in the village. Get dressed, warm!”

I rush to the bathroom, then fish in my suitcase for my ski pants and jacket. In 20 minutes I’m ready and linger downstairs in the living room.

“You look like a member of the Spanish Winter Olympic team,” you say playfully, taking in my white-with-yellow-and-red-checks gear.

I shrug. “I like it. I forget the hat though.”

You pick up your red knitted ski hat and pull it deep in my forehead, arranging it for the white RF logo to be properly in the middle. “There you go! Pretty and marked, how I like it the most.” You wink at me and I can’t help blushing, my colour getting close to look like that of the hat’s.

You usher me forward, out of the door, but I come to a halt when I step on the little pavement that is leading to the street. “Rog, that is…”

“For us, yeah,” you confirm.

I walk closer and take in the sight of the weird vehicle. “You no serious!”

“Why not? You wanted a sleigh-ride at Christmas, didn’t you? Or you no longer like the idea?”

I’m undecided. I say hello to the driver and reach out to touch one of the horses but it kind of sneezes at me and I yank my hand back. I don’t really trust animals even though I know they must be more concerned about my intentions than I am of theirs. The driver says something in French that I don’t catch. Anyhow, it sounds encouraging.

“They don’t bite,” you translate. “Just go slow!”

I take the advice and the horse lets me smooth its head. The driver grins at me. “They are beautiful,” I whisper, eyes drinking in the presence of the two white hoofed animals, then the sled, too. It’s simply but attractively built and I can tell how much precise work was put into it.

“We perhaps get in, then?” you ask, a secret smile playing on your lips.

“Sure,” I say and climb in the seats. “I no think you are capable of this, no?”

You sit beside me, getting comfy and laying a plaid over our legs, tucking me in. “I will just ignore you said that. I’m capable of anything when it comes to you, Rafael. Even if sometimes I laugh at myself and think I’m crazy and what I plan is too much.”

“Almost, no?” I grin while the horses yank the sleigh into gear. “But is nice, I like. Not like you buy this for me, no? That would be too much.”

You look down sheepishly and the idea that you have already bought me something ridiculously expensive and unnecessary hits me. “OK, Rogi, if you got me a Ferrari, I no mind it!” I reassure you, patting your plaid-clad thigh, and finally make you laugh. “Not that I need it but Ferrari is nice,” I mutter, bending my head onto your shoulder and enjoying the rest of our slow and calming ride.

We share a huge garlic shrimp pizza at a nice and cozy pizzeria in the centre of the village while you are laughing at me for sticking to my seafood even here.

“I need Spanish everywhere, no?” I mumble, cheese stretching between my mouth and the slice I’m holding in my hands, ending up torn and hanging from my lips.

“At least you eat cheese on this! That’s something,” you admit. Stuffing the last bites in your mouth you add, “I think we should go for a walk after this. I need some exercise, I ate too much!”

This wonderful walk on the streets of the village in bright weather clears my senses so much that entering the candy shop almost blows me off my feet with its godly aroma of chocolate. The shop assistant lady, recognizing us, runs back to the office and brings the owner with her while we are posing for pictures with the few costumers being there. In a minute we are treated with the most special kind of chocolates and trying out all of them. I particularly love the Villars brand which sports the village’s name even though – as the owner explains – it has not much to do with it; the factory is located in Fribourg, where you will play the Davis Cup tie soon.

“It is not cheating if we buy all this, Rog?” I ask, mouth full of Swiss Chocolate Whips, hand already reaching for the Larmes d’Edelweiss.

You shrug. “I’m sure Lindt won’t get pissed off!” you say, laughing. “But try not to eat all the different stuff at one go, okay? You gotta go slowly and really taste the Edelweiss liqueur, for God’s sake, so first swallow what’s in your mouth!”

I roll my eyes. “I do my way, no?” And I bite the little bonbon’s end off and the distinct flavour of honey and chestnut hits my taste buds in liquid form. I swallow and it feels hot suddenly and I’m coughing.

“Told you!” you say, chuckling. I grin after I compose myself.

“This full of alcohol!”

You shake your head. “And already hitting you!”

“Nice!” I pop the whole candy in my mouth and chew. “Very nice!”

“I see we are in for a giggly, happy afternoon!”

Packed with a huge basket of sweets, I’m indeed happily bouncing on beside you, back to the main square of the village, where we find our two-horse-sleigh again. You ask if I want to go up to the peak, as it is still early enough, but I think it’s better we head home now and stay in for the evening.

“All right. I cook dinner. If you can eat more!” you say, watching another praliné disappearing between my lips.

“Always I can eat more!” I assure you.

Back to the chalet you send me off to do whatever I wish (just not to be in the way while you are making food) and soon I get my call and come downstairs in a hurry, to be stopped by the sight. There is the nicely done table with candles on it, lit, so their lights scatter a golden shade over the furniture in the room. The food smells wonderful; I’m taking my seat in no time and tuck in. There are fries and salad and salmon in some coat that is made of I-don’t-know-what, but it’s for sure amazing. There is fine wine to it and ice cream cake for dessert – “As if you haven’t eaten enough sugar yet, Rafa!” –, coffee for you at the end and hot Swiss Chocolate Drink that we bought at the candy store in the afternoon for me.

“You no afraid you can no sleep from all the coffee?” I ask you when we are lazing around on the couch.

“Nee. I need to be alert for the sex I planned for tonight,” you wink at me.

My cheeks get hot but I try to play it off, saying, “I so full, Rog, no sure I can move.”

“Yeah, sure,” you are nodding absently and inching closer to pull me into a full body embrace and my lips into a deep kiss.

We make love on the couch, then upstairs in the bedroom, on the bed, and you state we are to continue under the shower but before we could start for the bathroom, you suddenly fall asleep.

‘No strength of coffee can beat sexual exhaustion, no?’ I think before I also say good bye to the day of our third anniversary.

 

**Villars, Switzerland, 2nd of February, 2012**

* * *

Up we go to the mountain in the late morning, by cable car, sliding through the light grey layer of clouds that provide the aftergrowth of snow down there in the village. Being lifted above them the blinding rays of Sun beat down on us and I start to feel overheated inside the cabin, so I can’t wait to reach the peak and get out of here. When we finally arrive and leave the cabin, I watch you looking around, breathing deep, sporting a posture that clearly indicates you are feeling on the top of the world. ‘And that is where you truly belong,’ I think, smiling. I always believed you are a man of every land, so to speak, and I could list ten nations around the globe at the least, that would happily adopt you (and your achievements!). But this one, this is your place; this small country is where you are at home the most. And this makes me be at home almost as much, just because where you belong, there I belong, too.

“Are you homesick?” you ask, noticing my absent look.

I shake my head wildly. “No, contrario. I am home, no?”

The grin on your face had never been wider. You extend your arm and I catch your hand with mine and you pull me with you, our steps making crunchy sounds in the snow.

The view from up here is breathtaking; I watch the people with skis on their feet starting down the hill to conquer the tracks at different levels of difficulty. There are smaller slopes for beginners and children at the right side with a shorter button lift where they are taught using it properly. The youngest kids cannot be older than three – I find that fascinating every time I see a group with the instructors. To the left, there is also a sled course, and around the huge complex that contains a restaurant and café, I see the giant of a terrace where one can have a rest between downhills and enjoy the sunshine, just like at the beach.

“Where to?” you ask, waking me from the look-around mode.

“Lunch?” I ask back.

You roll your eyes. “Why do I even ask?”

We are having the best Wiener schnitzel in the world, at least of those that I have tasted so far. After lunch we shed our jackets and are lying in the sun at the terrace and you are rubbing sunscreen into my skin, despite of all my protests. Me and sunscreen – we have animosity between us. I hate it on me with passion; however I know the danger of not using it.

“Stop whining and fidgeting, Rafael!” you say and put a thin layer of cream on my nose.

I sneeze, forced by the smell that travels up in my nostrils, and you laugh at me. “It won’t kill you,” you go on, smirking. I sneeze again and glare at your sunny face.

Later I come to myself, hearing distant murmur. I slowly open my eyes – having no idea how long I have been dozing off – and turn on my deck chair. You are chatting with an elderly couple in Swiss German, and a little boy, not more than 6 or 7 years old, comes running, shouting and swinging a marker in his hand. He must be the grandson, I guess, and watch you signing one of his skis. Then he looks at me and shyly stretches his arm in my direction.

“Oh, you are up!” you say, smiling, pulling me up to a sitting position.

I say hello and scribble my name beside yours. The boy says something, seemingly happy and enchanted, showing his ski off to his grandparents.

“He says his classmates won’t believe who he met, not even with the autographs,” you tell me.

“Sí? You have camera, little one?” I ask him and he nods, obviously understanding me. “All good then, we make a picture, no?”

There are more photos in the making: one I make of you with the family, one you take of me and them, and one last, taken by the grandfather, in which we grin into the lenses with the proud boy sitting between us.

“They were nice,” you say after they are gone, because the kid dragged them onto the ski course again for the next round. “He has been skiing since his age of two!” I watch the boy sliding off and disappearing down the hill.

“Wow! Maybe we should watch out for his name in ten years in big competition, no?”

You grin, lifting your sunglasses onto the top of your head. “Ice cream?”

I grunt. “I no go inside with this white shit on my face!”

“But… you are so attractive like this! Besides, it didn’t bother you when we took photos!” you say, giggling.

“¡De puta madre!” That didn’t come to me.

The ice cream makes up for my discomfort, as well as the fries I have just after, much to your horror.

“¿Qué? It all go to same place, no? No matter the order I eat!” I reason.

The sun is settling slowly and they have the huge spotlights on when we are getting in our cabin to leave. Down in the village it is still snowing in tiny flakes and I can’t help it, I jump in the virgin whiteness beside our chalet, then lie down and make a snow angel and pull you down with me, too, to make one.

“Your head is soaked,” you state, and inside the house you dry me off with a soft towel, by the warming flames of the lit logs in the fireplace.

“I want to make a snowman tomorrow,” I tell you after long minutes of silent rest on the thick carpet in front of the fire.

“Uhum… I want you in me… tonight!”

“Roger…” I choke on your name and feel my skin turn in crimson colour and heat flare up inside of me.

“Please!” you whisper, rolling over me, flames dancing in your soft brown eyes when looking in mine.

Soon I don’t see more than the flickering lights on your bare skin whilst I am kneeling on the carpet, with your ass drawn up on my thighs, and my cock sliding into your body, then out of it again. I don’t hear more than the hoarse voice of yours and the slaps of our rhythmically joining bodies. Then my own moaning and ragged cussing when I reach for your neglected shaft and push my thumb into your wet slit. The sound it draws from you is the song of a lover, making me lose my mind over its sensuality. You are looking at me, not even heavy lids can shade the radiating shine of your eyes when you arch off me and come, inner muscles contracting around me, throwing me into completion, as well. Slipping out of you, I hunch forward and lay my cheek on your hip.

“You’re so good!” you mumble, voice shaky with the pleasure you experienced.

Humming, I say, “I learn from the maestro, no?”

“That’s not what you learned from me!” you retort with a snort. “You were a natural, albeit untamed to the highest level!” And you go off giggling. “Thinking of it, I should talk about this in my new blog, shouldn’t I? It would bring unimaginable amount of hits.”

My head springs up and I stare you down with narrowed eyes. “You no gonna talk about that!”

“No, I’m not,” you laugh and scoot upward to kiss me.

We take a shower together, washing each other, before having some snacks and cookies for dinner, as neither of us is willing to cook. You make glühwein though and we are sipping it at the fire while you are writing the aforementioned blog. You let me read it before posting and I think it’s just normal for a first entry.

“Not very funny,” I tell you.

“I don’t wanna be funny! I wanna be myself,” you claim. “If I’m doing this, I’m not gonna pretend.”

“Is short too, no?” I say.

“Eh… It’s good for a first, isn’t it?” You seem self-conscious.

I take pity on you and smile. “Silly. Is OK! I love the title. Really!”

You believe me and click on Post, sending it out in the cyberspace.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/92533957@N07/17174035866)

I drink what’s left of the glühwein, it’s so very delicious, and I still feel its effect when I climb in bed beside you.

“You taste of cinnamon,” you mumble between kisses and I can’t help it, you are so hot and furry and inviting, melting in my arms that my cock twitches with serious interest and when your thigh slips between mine, I begin rubbing on it.

“You want…? In me again?” you ask, softly, nipping on my lower lip.

I shake my head. “Just… touch, Roger! Touch me, por favor!”

Nodding, your hand slides down on my back, cupping my ass and you turn us onto our sides, facing each other. Then lining our hard flesh between us, you slowly start stroking, while your face edges closer and your tongue finds its way into my mouth once again. My babbling in ‘incoherent’ mixed with Mallorquín is being the end of your journey to ecstasy land. You spill your seed on your hand and our bellies and the grip loosens on me, making me whimper for the loss of intense contact.

“Sorry…” you whisper and still seeming somewhat blinded by the orgasm, push me on my back and slip down in bed, under the blanket. I want to protest for a second but you are faster, already sucking my cock inside your mouth. It doesn’t take much and it pulses in your tight, wet heat. Before the first rope of pearly whiteness could hit your tongue, you pull off, and let me come in your hand.

Coming up again, panting, you say sorry once more. “Didn’t want to brush my teeth again.”

“Clean freak!” I mutter, amused.

“Where did you learn that word at all?” you ask, then hold your palm up to stop me when I open my mouth to reply. “No, no, I think I don’t even wanna know!”

I snort. “I clean us then! God forbid if you stay dirty!”

“Oh, shut it! I get very dirty by you on a daily basis, Rafael Nadal!” you mock me while I’m getting our skin rid of the evidence of love making.

“I love you, too, no?” I say, bringing you back down to my chest, one hand twisting in your currently messy curls, the other smoothing the thick hair on your forearm.

“’S nice,” you murmur into my skin. “Don’t stop!” You sink deeper, pressing on my body, right hand holding on my waist.

And that is how we greet the Dream Fairy tonight.


	2. Chapter Two

**Villars, Switzerland, 3rd of February, 2012**

“Wake up, wake up!” I’m jumping on the bed quite early in the morning.  
“Wha…?” you mutter.  
“We go make a snowman, you promised, Rogi!”  
“I just fell asleep, can’t be morning yet!” comes your muffled voice from under the blanket you have pulled over your head, protesting against the light attacking your eyes and noises bothering your ears.  
“It is 9. Fair morning,” I chuckle.  
I try to yank the blanket off you but, despite of your half-asleep state, you grab it and won’t let it go.  
“God’s sake, Raf… lemme sleep a bit more, we are on vacation!”  
“Pfft! Ol’ chap!” I bite, playfully though.  
“I will really have a serious talk with A-Rod about the insulting words he teaches you! All aimed at me, my age, my weaknesses…” you mumble, turning to your other side with your back to me, willing to slumber on.  
I change tactics.  
Slipping under the covers, I place light kisses on your body, slowly heading downwards until I reach the dimples at the end of your backbone, just above your ass. My tongue darts out there to taste the smooth skin.  
You move then, lifting your hip a bit, offering yourself to me, and asking for more.  
I blow on the spot where I left you wet; this action forces a soft moan to fall from your lips. I faintly hear you breathe ‘Rafa’ into the pillow.  
‘Sí, I know, I let you sleep…”  
“Mmmm, noooo, I’m awake now!” you object, obviously counting on me to continue.  
I sit up and happily say, “Bueno, Rogelio! We can go build my snowman!”  
And with that I jump out of the bed, laughing at your pained groan on my way to the bathroom.  
“I will give you snowman, you monster!” you shout after me.  
Well, it made you get up finally, no? Mission accomplished!

After you drag yourself out of bed at long last, and we have some breakfast, and morning coffee makes you less grumpy, we leave the house to be greeted by about 20-30 centimeters of fresh snow that fell during the night. Just perfectly sticky to form it into balls for my imagined snowman.  
But before I go search for the most proper place for it, I notice something.  
“Is weird. The pavement is clean. Do the… you know, the people in the big cars do that?”  
You shake your head. “Nope, that’s your duty, at your house, of course. And see, the snow removal hasn’t happened yet on the road!” You look around and point at the path that leads from out chalet to the one across the street. “Footsteps! Must have been the neighbours, seems it’s shoveled in the same manner.”  
I examine their house, smiling. “That is nice, no?”  
“It is. We should thank them before we leave!” you agree. “But first let’s fulfill your dream!”  
That said you bend to get a handful of snow and begin making a ball of it. I follow the example and when mine is done, I put it down and start to roll it in the snow, so it’s catching up more and more, growing nicely.  
But your ball suddenly ends up in my neck, sending chills down my spine, making me shiver and shriek ‘¿Qué chingados?’ in surprise.  
You are laughing uncontrollably. “Saying ‘what the fuck’ is the best you can do, Rafael?”  
“I will have more after I make the snowman,” I confirm and turn back to my work.  
“You are no fun when determined, you know? Look at you wearing your match face!” you huff, but coming closer to help me and when I hear your steps behind me, I grab my rather big ball in both hands and swing it at you blindly.  
It smashes into your jaw and it’s lucky we are close enough for me catching you; otherwise you would fall back with the weight of the impact. You look stunned for a second but then hook your leg around mine and take me down to the ground and fall on me, keeping me locked. No matter how much I fight with all my limbs I can move, you shovel snow on my head, still giggling meanwhile and saying, “Come on, champion, you can play dirty now!”  
I can’t answer because my mouth is full of snow now but don’t wait for a second invite. My first thought is I should just kick you in the balls even though you sure didn’t mean that much dirty. So I choose the alternate dirty way, bringing up my thigh between your legs, rub it to your bits, and let out a suggestive moan.  
For you are taken aback by my actions, I can shove you off of me, onto your back in the sparkling snow dust. I climb over you and concentrate on trying to cover you in as much of the icy material as I can.  
“Is this what you call fair play?” you press it out between your lips while launching into action, too, wrestling me off, with little success.  
“What fair play, Rogi?” I ask, grinning. “You say dirty!”  
“Oh, my bad,” you groan and punch me in the face with a handful of snow.  
We are laughing and after having got thoroughly soaked at the face and neck, both give up involving snow in the fight, changing strategies, shedding gloves and tickling the soul out of the other with quickly cooling fingers sneaking under jackets.  
“Okay, I give up, I give up!” you shriek some minutes later.  
I let you go sit up in the snow and I myself kneel, too. I wear my triumphant smile, waiting for being announced as the winner but you only roll your eyes and kiss me. I take that as my prize, so I am pleased.

We are staying out playing around, enjoying the contrast of the cold snow and the warm sunshine until mid-afternoon, when my stomach rumbles, stating that we forgot to eat lunch.  
“He’s done, right?” you say, admiring our snowman – complete with a hat and eyes and a carrot for his nose of course, sporting a shawl around his neck – which we had built in the end.  
“Sí, perfecto!” I confirm.  
“So… I say… the last who finishes taking a shower and changing is cooking food!” you call, and not too decently, dart for the house mid-sentence.

You still end up losing your own bet because I block your way out of the shower and reach the kitchen first, dressed. However, you notice that I miss a sock, declaring that irregular, therefore we are cooking together eventually.  
“Do you want to come with me tomorrow to see the shooting?” you are asking me after our meal that turned out to be dinner, as it got that late.  
“No. I have stuff to do, call people, answer mails. I think I be busy for those hours,” I say.  
You nod, deep in thoughts though.  
“What is it, Rog?”  
“Nothing, really. I think… we could be staying here for longer. I could drive to practice the next few days. It’s the 7th when we have the press conference, before that I’m needed only on practice court so…”  
“No, Rogi,” I cut you off decidedly but gently. “Is nice here but we pack and go stay in Fribourg. You go meet your team, be with them, I stay behind, sí? You did the same for me in Davis Cup final. No worry about me, I am big boy, I am fine when daddy go to the office, no?” I wink in the end.  
You sigh out an ‘all right’, seeing it makes no sense to have any duelling about this topic. Then suddenly you blast up with snorting laughter.  
“Daddy goes to the office, Rafa?”  
“¡Oh, cállate!” I mumble, embarrassed slightly, and groaning frustratedly when it makes you snicker just more.

We are having lovely banter for the rest of the evening that leads to you saying ‘let me show you how big daddy is!’ and making passionate love to me on the divan.

Tucked in bed pretty early, as you have an early appointment tomorrow, my head is still spinning with the day’s activities, and my heart races when you embrace me, and your lips ghosting over my ear shell. You whisper you love me, and I counter it by saying the same, and we abruptly fall asleep, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

* * *

 

**Villars, Switzerland, 4th of February, 2012**

I recognize your steps coming to my way and the shovel stills in my hands while I turn to face you.  
“I panicked just a bit when I didn’t find you anywhere. What are you doing out here, Raf, at this unholy hour?” you ask, wide-eyed, taking in the work I’ve already done.  
I shrug, looking around the neighbours’ pavement and driveway. “I thought I clean it, no? Is nice to thank them like this, do the same for them. I find shovels in garage so I come to do it. Could no sleep longer.”  
You stare at me for a while, in awe, then spotting another smaller shovel, you come and grab it and begin to clear the rest of the snow off the driveway. I join in and we work in silent harmony.  
“You are such a decent person, you know that?” you tell me when we manage to get the last patch of snow out of the way. “Now better we go write a note though, and leave it at their door for them to find or the poor guys will freak out when they step out of the chalet!” you snicker. “I don’t think they would ever guess us coming to do the job.”  
We gather our tools and walk back to the house. “Nah, no necessary. I come to talk to the guy when I see him leave later,” I assure you.  
“All right then, tell them I said hi and thank you! This was really very thoughtful of you, Rafa!” you say, hugging me to your chest briefly.  
“There is reason why you love me so much!” I retort and you pull my hat into my eyes, laughing.

We eat breakfast – cereals and eggs and muffins – and soon you leave, but only after I made you swear on everything above that you are going to drive carefully. You calm me down by saying you learned to drive here in winter so you are skillful enough to be trusted even on slippery roads.  
I am still not completely relaxed until you text me.

**‘Arrived in 1 piece. It’s so cold, Raf, and I have most of scenes shot outside! Brrrr… R’**

It takes some long hours to have your shooting wrapped up and meanwhile I am working on some business emails, answering some requests and have a call with my manager about an event we are planning to be held in Santiago Bernabéu stadium in a few months. They have just got back to us with available dates for it, so now the ball is in our court to choose the final one. I hardly can keep my growing excitement at bay. I hope everything will turn out well! I will have some interesting chats on this with you.  
My phone dings when I’m about to finish my mail to my family and attaching photos we took since we have been here in the mountains.

**‘On my way, there in 10, hope you didn’t cook, I’m bringing takeaway!  R’**

The Cheshire cat grin returns to my face.

**‘U just know i forgot 2 cook, sí? :)’**

**‘I was counting on it, yeah. :-) R’**

There are no other messages arriving so I understand you are in the car driving again. I shut the laptop and go down to the kitchen to lay the table. I didn’t realize it had gotten this late, almost 4 pm.  
I hastily finish my task, not really caring about its perfection. I’m not exactly precise and artistic with placing things anywhere, except of my water bottles courtside, of course. So the table looks like how it does, and I know you won’t mind it in either way.

You show up with a huge smile on, and a similarly huge bag of Chinese food.  
“Did you miss me, Honey?” you ask, miming a soap opera tone, making me snort but pull you in a hug, because I did miss you.  
“So, how was your day?” you ask, sitting at the table, after you told me all about yours.  
“Maribel want me to say ‘hola’ to you and Mamá asked when I go home,” I summon what my family wrote me in the mails I was reading and answering.  
You giggle around your sweet and sour chicken. “You’ll always be Mama’s little boy.”  
I consider throwing some food at you but it’s too good to be wasted so I pop the bite in my mouth instead and chew happily.  
“What else?” you ask.  
I swallow and clear my throat meaningfully.  
“Uh-oh… Did something happen?”  
“Real Madrid give us the dates,” I say, watching your face light up.

You had become very, very excited when I first came up with the idea of a charity tennis match taking place in a football stadium. Being it the Bernabéu, you had got goose bumps just thinking about the possibility and imagining the tennis court in the middle of the pitch, and the crowd the event could pull in.

“And? Are they doable?” you go on, tone obviously eager.  
I sigh – it’s not such good news, I predict. “Only one. And I no think you will be very happy about it.”  
“Oh, come on, Rafa, just say it!”  
“July 14.”  
Your face darkens just slightly. “Hmm. Now that is a silly date indeed. Isn’t there any other possible?”  
I shake my head. “But think of it again, we no have to choose now!”  
“Well, I do hope they can come up with something else because I frankly don’t see myself giving up any free time between Wimbledon and the Olympics! Those are clearly my focus this year and I won’t want them in any danger.”  
I hum in agreement but the wheels are turning feverishly in my head. “But what if… maybe you will no need to concentrate on them so much.”  
The look you are giving me reminds me of the silly saying in movies: they shoot first and ask only after.  
“Are you saying, Rafael, that I won’t do well enough throughout the year for Wimby and the Games’ results to matter something at the end?”  
I gape at you. “No, I say…”  
“You’d better not! Don’t forget my big year!” you warn, wiggling an index finger at me.  
I huff. “No get… what is the word ‘ofendido’?”  
“I’m not offended,” you chuckle. “Honestly, that is close enough to memorize, Rafa. Ofendido – offended. Now, slowly repeat it after me… ofendi…”  
At this point I can’t stand the know-it-all attitude any longer and throw my napkin into your face.  
You just laugh. “All right. There’s some truth in what you say after all. The year is long, I’m going to see how I do in the near future and give my final say only last minute. Just warn me again when I have to decide! Pleased now?”  
I nod, although I would be more pleased if you stood now and crawled over the table, knocking plates and silverware off, and kissed me.  
“What?” you ask, surely noticing my odd, dreaming expression.  
“¡Nada!” I rush to lie, and you, despite of remaining suspicious, let it go.

I’m doing the dishes after dinner – yes, it went on eating and talking to be considered dinner –, while you are writing your blog again. You make me proof-read it later and I almost die with laughter because who would be so insane to ask me such a thing? Me + English = still doesn’t work!  
But you tell me it’s not about that. You only want to know my opinion, as always, to be sure I don’t feel really uncomfortable with anything you have written.  
“It’s not much, so just do it!” you say, pulling me to your side to see the monitor properly.

 

“Now you look thoughtful, Raf,” you say warily when I’m done. “It’s scary…”  
“No,” I smile. “Nice to see you open up much more than before, no? If you no mind that much personal info, I am OK with it. Just a bit uhm… cauteloso...”  
“Careful?”  
“Eh, no. Like… to think maybe there will be problems,” I try to explain.  
“Oh… cautious!” you grin as every time you figure a Spanish word out.  
“Sí!” I return your smile. “But, Rog, you no have to ask me permiso before you share something on the blog, no? I am sure we will be apart at times so you can no show me anyway.”  
You shrug. “I’ll still mail it to you beforehand. I simply want your nod. Not regretting something after! I’m cautious, too,” you finish is with a wink. “I wouldn’t want you punishing me for something stupid I said!”  
I get comfy at your side, leaning my head on your shoulder. You are idly playing with my hair at the nape.  
“What you mean?” I ask.  
“I don’t know. Random stuff. No sex for a week?” you offer.  
I snort into your neck. “That punish me, too! I am no stupid!”  
“Oh, yeah, I forgot I was so good in bed!” A deep chuckle follows your statement.  
“It was long time ago, I no remember,” I challenge.  
You lift my face with a finger and look me in the eye, for long.  
Then, my hand held gently, I’m being led up to the bedroom where you make me remember again.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here's to Roger's 8th Wimbledon title. Because, I daresay, trusting the Maestro, he is going to win it.  
> Enjoy, and please, please, please, if you can take some time, share your thoughts with the poor author who is as hungry for feedback as Roger is for a 18th Grand Slam! Thank you in advance!  
> <3  
> Ada

**Fribourg, Switzerland, 5th of February, 2012**

  
It is a very beautiful city, Fribourg, where we arrive in the morning. Other than freezing my ears off, I am feeling recharged and ready to get back to practice.

We are hitting at the makeshift practice court of the venue where the Switzerland vs. USA Davis Cup tie will be held. It’s really nice, this idea of indoor clay, though I still don’t get why you, as the host team, chose this particular surface. You explained to me that clay is supposed to be Stan Wawrinka’s best, and well, you are also a great clay courter, usually coming second to me throughout the years. So it should work, you reasoned.

I am certainly not complaining; I enjoy my favourite clay. But the altitude worries me. We can’t know how the court and balls will act, given the circumstances. You say that is something you and the team have to face and figure out, the sooner, the better, so I shouldn’t have fears.

After our little practice and lunch, we meet the team at an indoor pool and spa. I didn’t want to come but you insisted. And indeed, at first the mood is a tiny bit awkward. I don’t know the other guys, Marco Chiudinelli and Michael Lammer that much as I know Stan, so I feel slightly out of the place.

Then again, when Severin arrives and they decide to play a water polo match, and as they are only the two of them against you, Seve and Stan, I prove to be useful, joining their team. All uncomfortable feelings are gone when we win! The guys treat me as one of them who belongs from now on and I am having real fun spending time with them.

“Next time you are on my team,” you tell me, pissed off because of the result.

“Oh no! Rafa is now signed for us!” chimes Marco in and he and Michi give me the high-fives.

“Traitor!” you mutter and turn your back on me at the lockers.

I shrug and the guys laugh. “I don’t know how you guys can live together with that much competitive tension between you!” Michi admits.

“Oh, trust me, I want to choke him everyday!” you tell him, now also laughing.

“I want to be a fly on your wall, man!” he says.

You look at him, odd expression on your face. “I’m sure you would see new things!” you reply with a suggestive lift of one eyebrow.

They all burst out of another fit of laughter and I pull my shirt on my head to hide my blush.

We hardly get back in our hotel room and shut the door behind us when you back me up to it, kissing me and starting to pull my jacket off. I drop the bag I was carrying and push you, walking you backward to the bedroom, shedding clothes on the way.

“I’m jealous!” you state, accompanied by some not very gentle bites on my shoulders.

“Again?” I giggle.

“Yes! You charm everybody.”

“But they are straight. In relationships,” I remind you.

“That doesn’t matter. You are awesome like that. Everybody wants you,” you say, dark eyes drilling into mine.

“I want only you, Roger,” I whisper, your name coming out more like a moan at the end.

We fall on the bed, mostly naked, except of my leggings I was wearing under my jeans, against the cold. You snicker while getting rid of your boxers, throwing them blindly somewhere.

Then you are kneeling above me and staring at the garment hugging my hips and legs tightly.

“This could be a turn-off, you know… But look at you!” you say and your hungry eyes don’t leave any doubt about what your meaning is. You could eat my trapped hardness with them but instead you bend to attach your lips to it through the stretchy fabric, and slide your tongue over me.

“Your scent drives me mad,” you murmur when my hips lift up to push more to your face, craving more friction. You understand and oblige, closing your lips around the head of my cock, sucking.

I am blissed out even before you move to take my pants off and when it’s done, sucking my cock back in your mouth and torturing me until I moan ‘more’. Then you ask me to turn around.

As if my body knew what is coming, more pre-come is dropping on your hand holding my erection. You don’t seem to urge me to obey because you lift me up to meet you for a deep kiss, tongues duelling, teeth nipping, our spit mingling. Only now you push me gently to lie down on my front.

I see you reach over and pull the nightstand drawer to take out the little tube. I decide not to be impatient but my hips lift up by their own to present my ass. You chuckle and bending over me, begin to lay tiny kisses on my lower back. My increasing moaning makes your ones deeper and more animated by the second, and finally you slip your tongue to my entrance and after some experimental tracing, it dips inside me.

You giggle at my harsh reaction but don’t pull away and the vibration rumbles through my inside, sending shocking waves of pleasure to my cock.

“Please!” I say.

“Please what?”

“No play with me!”

The answer to that arrives in the form of a little noise of opening the lubricant and then a cool touch around my hole and a coated finger snaking in to the hilt. I don’t want you to wait any longer so I push back on it. It already feels too little; I need more.

“No playing…” you whisper, adding the next finger, searching for the small bundle of nerves inside. When finding it, my mind goes shut and my body wild, trashing and shaking like leaves in wind, that being your cue to take me at long last.

You enter me slowly, sliding in comfortably, not meeting any resistance. And taking me, indeed – to a place where there are only the two of us, forming, melting into one person, one body, one soul.

Small shreds of thoughts are flickering in my mind. That, this began so hotly, as if you would have wanted to tear me apart, and now, now it’s nothing less than an earth shattering act, your cock caressing my inside, your body draped all over me, covering me, sheltering me from the outside world, and your whispered words loving me so deeply.

I am having tears prickling in my eyes when I come under you, feeling with every cell and nerve of mine that you are falling apart, as well, pouring everything you have into me.

I could remain like this for good, having us joint, with your cheek resting on mine, breathing together, catching up on the other’s slowing rhythm.

“I love you,” you say suddenly and I can hear how tight your throat is. You clear it before I could respond, and repeat, “I love you!”

It just makes me all the more sappy. I slowly turn under you – you lift up a bit to be helpful and with that your cock slips out of me and I feel so empty. But settling down on my back, having you pressed down on me again makes it right and we are kissing, sweetly, tenderly.

You stare at me when we part, kind of sheepishly, and I blush, and then you blush, too, and I am absolutely sure you are going into the ever-present giggles… Except, you are not. Only looking at me, biting your lower lip.

“I love you,” it comes again then.

My reply is coming by instincts now. “I love you, too, no?”

A hint of laugh can be discovered in your eyes but no giggles come, only a serious kiss, intent tongue meeting mine, affectionate palms holding my face and careful thumbs sweeping over the lashes of my closing eyes.  
I sigh into the kiss. Arms roaming your shoulders and back and fingers sliding in your hair over and over again. Until you let us breathe fresh air, not only our mingled scent, and lie on top of me, finding a more comfortable position in which all our parts fit perfectly.

We fall asleep surrounded by each other before showers could be taken or dinner could be eaten.

 

**Fribourg, Switzerland, 6th of February, 2012**

I wake up to my stomach protesting loud against the emptiness.

We switched places during the night; you are lying on your back now and I am all over you. Everything is sticky and the air is still heavy with the smell of sex. The look in your eyes still doesn’t change either when you open them – there is the same softness and sensitivity in the touches, too.

We don’t talk much sharing the bathroom and eating an enormous breakfast and I see you watching me even when you believe I don’t look.

“What is it, Roger?” I ask finally.

“Nothing… Just… I’m in love and I hope you know, I hope I show you, I mean I know you know but… Do you also feel it how I do? Is it the same overwhelming for you? Because, some days, I just don’t know where I am, I look around and have no idea, but I see you and you are here and I think, screw it, screw the world, I don’t care, I don’t have to know the place, I don’t have to know why I am here or what I’m entitled to do… You are here and everything comes second to that.”

You blink at me, adorably thrown off.

“Babbling Roger is my favorito,” I tell you.

You snort but before you could come up with a witty jab, I take your hand and pull you up from your chair, and then down again, sitting you in my lap. I kiss that hand, then place it around my neck.

“I feel it every moment, Rogelio,” I say, holding your eyes captured by mine.

A kiss is sealing the deal and I try to pour all my heart into it. I think I manage.

We never let the other go for the rest of the day. Notably, never, except when we arrive at your training with Stan, and we meet his little Alexia again. From that point I have my hands full of the baby who I named Señorita Tornado. She is chattering along in her baby-French, calling you ‘Ogi’ and me, ‘Afa’, still having problems with enunciating ‘R’.

We are having fun while her Daddy and you are practising together; Alexia dragging a baby racquet with her, hitting the balls I offer her in every direction all over the place, shrieking mischievously whenever one falls on your court accidentally, until Stan says enough is enough and we get permission to go and buy cake, just not to be in the way anymore.

Therefore I miss the end of the practice but later you tell me you have met this singer lad who recorded a Davis Cup song for the Swiss team. We listen to it on the Internet later and it’s so silly in a horribly funny way that you are in giggles while writing a new blog entry, and still have sudden snorting laughs when I am reading it.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/92533957@N07/17198318142/in/datetaken/)

 

I smack your head upside-down when I finish.

“Hey! What?” you ask surprised.

“I no believe you tell people about the leggings!” I say, rigidly staring at you.

You are back to chuckling. “Come on, only we know what that really means! No worries, they don’t exactly see your dick looking scary in those stupid stockings! But I bet they imagine it…”

Another whack cuts you off.

“Ouch!” you whine but nothing could make you more satisfied when I scoot closer and, cuddled up in bed, I kiss the blows away.


	4. Chapter Four

  **Fribourg, Switzerland, 7th of February, 2012**

  
If I haven’t emphasized enough how handsome you are, now I have to, once more. Because that is all I can think of seeing you enter the press room, dressed in your Swiss national colours.  
The members of Team USA are already being seated on the podium when you, as in the Swiss, walk in, separately. It’s quite natural that you get cheers even from the journalists, and I have to snicker when I see everybody welcoming you in a sort of awe, from Johnny Isner to Jim Courier, who is not only a funny tennis expert nowadays, but also the Davis Cup captain of the United States.  
It takes hours to answer all the questions and take all the pictures and while the other guys have finished their duties, you are still sitting there at the table, giving interviews to the Swiss televisions.  
Jim is coming to stand with me – we shake hands and exchange words, he expresses to be happy seeing me here, when we hear one of your last answers.  
“The best thing at this conference is that Jim Courier is here as the Davis Cup captain so I don’t have to reply his provoking questions this time!” you say, nodding your head to our direction.  
“He likes those questions anyway,” Jim whispers to me.  
“Tell me about it!” I retort, using one of Benito’s favourite English phrases, rolling my eyes.  
Reporters’ eyes and camera lenses turn toward us now, and Jim, holding on my arm, says, “I have Rafa here captured, so if you want to get him back, you still have to answer me… let’s see… about your tactics, right?”  
You laugh. “Look at him, he just arrived in my land and is already threatening me! Starting the psychological warfare, Jim?”  
“Sure I do,” he retorts, smiling sweetly. “You begin it when you are named to be on the team! We are always a step behind.”  
You giggle, then turning back to the press, say something to them, and it’s as sure as the Sun rises in the East that nothing of this exchange will reach the public.  
Soon we are walking down the corridors and you are singing ‘I believe I can fly’, pulling me into a quick kiss when I shake my head at your over-confidence.  
“You know if you reach semi-finals, Spain will be there, no?” I ask.  
“Ooooh, really now? I am scared, Rafa,” you joke.  
“You should be.”  
“Uhum. So who is over-confident here? Anyway, I would like to play you in Davis Cup, that would be a blast!” you wink at me, then change to a more serious tone. “I’ll see you in the hotel later, ja? Don’t forget about the dinner with the guys!”  
“Sí, sí,” I nod and we part after a lingering hug and a sloppy, smiling kiss.  
“Drive careful!” you shout after me.  
I look back, almost from the other end of the corridor, and wave, then continue on my way.  
“Don’t eat too many sweets before dinner!” comes another advice, but I don’t turn again.  
“I love you!” you try once more.  
I’m laughing, just getting out of your sight, turning to the right.  
“No chocolate balls!” I hear your last sentence. The echo of it follows me all the way out of the building.  
In the evening, at the official Davis Cup team dinner, I am in a special position again, being your ‘plus one’. I don’t feel as a sidekick anymore, just a slightly bit weird when we walk in the private dining room of a hotel restaurant.  
Everybody is here, from all the players through the physio to the team doctor, and they are looking at us as one, making me step behind you and hide. But then, while the others greet you, Michi comes straight to me, holding his hand out to shake, smiling. I gratefully accept and he pulls me to sit beside him. You are in tow, taking your seat at my other side.  
“Stop!” you slap my hand away that is picking on my tie, between two bites.  
“But I no like it!” I complain and try to stare at you to seem more desperate than how strict you look.  
It doesn’t work. “I told you to leave it, it’s not like you have to be perfectly dressed up, unless you want to be in the official Swiss team photo. I don’t think you want that, do you?” you say, snickering softly.  
I scowl. “No! Unless you want the Armada come all the way here and kidnap me back!”  
“Not that they could manhandle my team!” you mutter. “Oh, just take that freaking tie off!” you ask finally. “You put it on only to impress the guys anyway!” And you roll your eyes at me before you lift your wine glass gingerly, and sip some. “They were already impressed, don’t worry!”  
I steal a glance around the table and notice the whole team being silent and observing us interestedly. There must be a sort of surprised look on my face, or the blushing gives me away, because you look up, too, seeing the others not eating at all.  
“Lovely!” exclaims Marco and they all start to laugh as one.  
You clear your throat, then say, “Cheers!”, and that’s how the slightly uncomfortable mood gets killed, giving way to a relaxed, chattering evening.  
“One day we have to play a footy match against your Armada, Rafa!” says Michi later.  
I snort into my glass. “You have no chance!”  
He smiles knowingly. “Just wait and see, my friend! Wait and see!”  
It’s late when we get back to our hotel, and in bed.  
“The match idea was good, no?” I ask you while getting comfortably spooned to your back.  
“You have no chance there!” you mime my broken English, giggling into your pillow.  
I choose not to respond. Instead I kiss the soft curls at your nape and sigh in sync with you, sinking slowly in a content dream.  
  
**Fribourg, Switzerland, 8th of February, 2012**

  
This day sucks! Big time.  
Uncle Toni calls me in the morning, telling me everything about this stupid TV show in France, where they showed a puppet looking like me, taking drugs, and said silly things.  
This just adds more fuel to the fire that was lit by a former French player, Yannick Noah, with an interview in which he accused practically all the Spanish tennis players of doping.  
Toni says he is going to talk to some members of the media later, and I shouldn’t worry much. That’s easier said than done; I am sulky and ill-tempered all day, and it is all poured onto you, being the shield between me and everybody else.  
“Now, easy there!” you mumble when I throw a soda can in the dustbin with too much force. “Raf… come here!” you say and catch my arm to pull me to you. “This doesn’t help, right? There will always be stupid people out there. You always have to think you are the smarter! Because you are. You know the truth, I know the truth, and all who matter know it! So don’t give the ones who spit venom a chance to see you upset about it! Do you wanna sue? Then we sue them…”  
I sit still beside you, still held by my arm, slowly calming down. “You think I have to?”  
You sigh, thinking deeply. “I don’t think it’s worth it. But if that helps you getting over it…”  
I shake my head. “No. I no think it help. It just piss me off they say this about other guys, someone like Iker Casillas, no? Say that every Spanish sportsman is like that. I can no understand.”  
“Seems just kind of bitter to me,” you say.  
My phone beeps now and I am very surprised to see who is calling.  
“Is Jo,” I tell you.  
“Talk to him!” you urge me, so I answer and for the next minutes I’m listening to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga being all shaken and sorry, apologizing for something he never did.  
It was completely unnecessary, yet, he felt the need to do it.  
“He is nice,” I say just to myself after we hung off.  
You nod. “See? Who matters doesn’t care!”  
Later we receive the footage of Uncle Toni’s interview and watch it on the laptop. He says it’s too bad for the French never winning the Roland Garros in years, and that’s what makes them so desperately spiteful. He seems unshaken by the whole process, even a bit cheeky, shrugging it all off.  
It makes my head cool down a bit and when you begin to chuckle at Toni’s nonchalant antics, I laugh, too, the first time since this shit had occurred.  
When bedtime arrives, I cling onto you under the blankets with a lighter heart and clearer thoughts, but I still wish I could forget this day ever happened!  
  
**Fribourg, Switzerland, 9th of February, 2012**

  
Today you are busy with the draw of the Davis Cup tie, and the press conference after, then the practice with Stanley again.  
I am busy with worrying about your upcoming matches, and babysitting little Alexia, teaching her some more about tennis balls and racquets. This ends by her chewing on a flurry ball and Stan fighting to take it out of her mouth, and everybody else laughing.  
When the actual training is finished, we are sitting around, talking lightly, Alexia’s presence making us all cheery. She is bouncing in your lap, seemingly oblivious to your chatting, but I can see she’s following it.  
“See, Lexi, this is Papa’s racquet,” you tell her.  
“Aket!” she exclaims.  
“Oui! Now, it is called like this because people played with their hands first,” you go on and show her how to hit the ball with her tiny hand.  
She’s shrieking when she succeeds.  
“Racquet comes from rahah. It is Arabic and it means palm,” you continue.  
“Ahah!” Alexia repeats.  
You lift your palm and touch hers to it, much like giving a high-five. “This is your palm, and this is mine.”  
“Now stop lecturing my daughter, you language freak!” says Stan, laughing, then he turns to me and asks, “Did he try to learn Arabic again this year?”  
“Sí,” I nod and we watch you again trying to teach Lexi how to hit your palm as strong as she can. Your skin gets red from the constant slapping and Stan snatches Alexia out of your arms when she begins to hit you forcefully, starting to enjoy the mild violence a bit too much.  
“You would let her do whatever she wants to you, wouldn’t you?” he asks, rolling his eyes.  
Lexi is screaming, noticeably not wanting to go yet.  
“Shush,” says Stan, “you can meet Uncle Rogi tomorrow again. Now say bye to them, sweetheart!”  
He holds her to give a kiss on our cheeks, and then they leave us with a ‘see you later!’  
“You are favorito now, no?” I say, chuckling.  
“Just because you didn’t bring cookies, Raf,” you state, before your eyes wander to the court. “Do you wanna hit some?”  
My eyes surely glint. “¡Claro que sí! But I no have my racquets with me.”  
“Then you have to use mine,” you wink and get one from your bag, handing it to me.  
I grunt. “This was… eh… trampa?”  
“Trick?”  
“Almost… sí, catch me with trick,” I explain.  
“Aaah, trap!” you recognize the word finally. “As if I needed a trap to catch you!”  
“You need trap to beat me, royal highness!” I say, jumping up and stride on court.  
“Nuh-uh! Judging from that challenging glare and pose, you want to play for real, Rafa, and you are not really stretched for that,” you warn. “Let’s call the physio then!”  
“Nooo,” I whine, “you can do it!”  
From your puzzled face, you sure didn’t expect this. “Is that a good idea?”  
I nod, coming back to you and getting one of the elastic bands from the bench. “I am warm, run around with Lexi, no?”  
I toss the band at you and it brings you out of your staring state. Soon we are going through all the routine, methodically stretching my body.  
No problems occur until our ankles are circled by the band and I have to do repeated bending, using you as the counter-force, my ass turned to you. It wouldn’t bother me the least but you get immediately distracted.  
“Told you this wasn’t a good idea!”  
“No…” I moan, bending once more. “You did…” bend, “no say…” bend, “that!”  
“Mmhmm… Now, I really wanna play tennis with you! But I wanna play something different, as well!” you admit it meekly.  
Your tone is what makes me stop and turn around and step close to you, still inside the circle of the stretching band. “Is something wrong?” I ask.  
You don’t answer, just pull me into your arms and lifting my face up by a finger hooked under my jaw, kiss me, tenderly, until my whole length is flushed to yours, and we are standing here, at the side of a tennis court, but I feel myself fly somewhere else. To that secret and hidden place only you can take me.  
When we part, you look me in the eye and caress my lips with your fingers. “Nothing is wrong, nothing at all. If you still want to play, give me a minute to compose myself. Because sometimes it hits me so hard how gorgeous you are, and how blessed I am to have you,” you murmur softly.  
At another moment I might be a bit embarrassed but now I’m only lost in you, in your arms, embracing you tightly and resting my head on your shoulder, how you rest yours on mine.  
When the pure moment is gone, I think, for an outsider eye it would look just like two guys hugging. But for us it means the world, and adding to the many millions of ties that had already kept us joint throughout the years, we have just got another, strengthening our togetherness.  
You sigh, airily, then flash a huge grin at me. “If you still wish, I’m honoured to beat you again!”  
I snort. “You can try, Rogi!” And after a quick kiss on your lips, I jog back to my side of the court, now properly warmed-up, to face you.  
Playing a set and finishing it off with a tight tiebreak would be my dream. But I can see after five minutes that it’s not going to happen. You are hitting long and wide and into the net from every point of the court and I can’t say I am in a very good form either.  
Luckily neither of us gets pissy and we giggle it off.  
“If only some journos had seen that!” you laugh when my ball lands somewhere in the stands.  
“I can no play with your racquet, Rog!” I complain, trying to blame my errors on the tool.  
“Whiner!” you retort.  
“Bounce is weird, too,” I go on.  
“Cry baby!” you say and stick your tongue out at me in the end.  
“Mature, Rog,” I roll my eyes, coming to the bench. “I just say it is no good. Think of my status as King of Clay! My opinion should matter, no?”  
“I figure it’s very unusual, okay? Not that we can do something about it now,” you shrug. “Probably the clay, the indoor and the altitude don’t work together.”  
“Very clever court choice,” I snicker while we are packing your gear in the bags.  
“Eh… It was mostly my idea,” you duck your head.  
“You will do well, Roger, no worry!” I say and help you carry the bags to the locker rooms.  
At night I’m sitting in the bed with a book on a legendary golfer’s life and trying to read but your constant sighing and fidgeting bother me. You have your laptop open in your lap and you are staring at the screen, doing nothing.  
“What is the drama, Rogi?” I ask when I give up rereading the same sentence the tenth time.  
“Wanna write a blog entry but I find my thoughts so boring,” you admit with another theatrical sigh.  
“My poor love,” I giggle. “Give me, I want to say hello to them! Can I?”  
Looking at me a bit oddly, you hand me the laptop over and for the next half an hour you are watching me writing the whole entry, occasionally pointing out and correcting my mistakes.  
“Here,” I push it back to you when I’m done. “Check it, then I want some prize for doing it!”  
A lifted eyebrow answers (or questions?) me before you get lost in reading.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/92533957@N07/17174033966/in/datetaken/)

According to your grin, you are pleased, and this gets proven when you post the entry, then shut the laptop, and take me in your arms, placing small kisses on my face everywhere.  
“Thanks! You are awesome… brilliant… funny…” you emphasize every word with another kiss, “and perfect… so sexy… beautiful… and mine!”  
It tickles how you are touching me with ease, light fingers snaking on my skin. I begin to laugh and squirm under you and pinch your belly to strike back. The playful fight is going on for a while, leading us to lying together panting, and eventually travelling to the realm of dreams.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! :)  
> I would like to say a huuuuge triple THANK THANK THANK YOU to all who are following this story!  
> All who reads, comments and gives it Kudos - You guys keep it alive and kicking!  
> Much love from Ada, and now on to the next adventure!

** Fribourg, Switzerland, 10th of February, 2012 **

Mardy Fish defeats Stanislas Wawrinka 2-6 6-4 6-4 1-6 7-9.

John Isner defeats Roger Federer 4-6 6-3 7-6(4) 6-2.

Everybody is sort of gobsmacked in the locker room after such an excruciatingly long and thrilling day.

There is low murmur until you unlace your shoes and ask them all to leave you alone for a while. Your voice is quiet but firm and they rush out one after the other.

I linger at the door and decide to stay. I shut it behind me and look at you sitting and pulling your shoes off. You take the pair in your hand and stand. Only then you realize I am still here.

“You, too, Rafa. Leave, please!” you say.

I shake my head to signal ‘no’. You are staring at me, your eyes flaring, and a groan escapes your throat. With a sudden jerk you send your shoes flying and they crash into the lockers before landing on the floor.

I wince but don’t move. You look back at me and I can tell you are resentful.

“Rafa, I’m really not up to...”

“Thank you!” I interrupt you boldly.

You gape at me in a questioning matter.

“For let me see you like this,” I explain. “Is rare and it mean I am seeing you at your worst, no? In our three years I did no have much... ocasión... chance, sí?”

Your bursting laughter sounds bitter. “So you feel honoured to see me raging mad.”

It is not a question but I nod.

“Is beautiful. You are beautiful,” I say softly. “There was no many moment like this before. Except when you lost US Open to Juan Martín...”

“Oh no, don’t go there!” you ask me with a sigh and sit finally, looking tamed. “I don’t know what has just happened.”

“Seems you were right, indoor clay do not go well with altitude,” I mutter and you look up at me again with a pained expression.

“Rub it in, Raf!”

I open my mouth to let you know that’s not what I meant but you begin to chuckle.

“And now we have to play on it during the whole fucking weekend, oh my!” You scratch your head, leaving your hair even more unruly.

I walk closer and my eyes fall upon the discarded shoes.

“I will no tell Nike how you treat your gear,” I try to joke and you respond with heartfelt giggling, stretching your hand toward me.

I clasp it in mine and I am pulled down to sit on the bench beside you.

“Another shitty year in Davis Cup starts,” you muse, slowly twining your fingers with mine.

“You can win the doubles and have chance to turn it around,” I offer.

You snort. “Our odds are vast with a Bryan on their team, I know!” you snap sarcastically.

I shrug. “You are Olympic Champions.”

You are back to lovely giggles. “That was four years ago and I still have no clue how we did it. Whatever, thank you for staying, I’m really fine now! You always know when to defy me, Rafael Nadal.”

Hours later I wake up with a start only to find your side of the bed empty beside me. It’s not unusual – you are probably still at Stan’s, going through tactics, and considering it’s very late, surely you fell asleep in his room. With a sigh I also go back to sleep, not letting worry eating me.

* * *

** Fribourg, Switzerland, 11th of February, 2012 **

It is a truly miserable Saturday.

No extended night of tactical meeting could save you from losing the doubles, side by side with Stanley, and with that, the entire Davis Cup tie. It means Switzerland has to take part in the play-offs in September to decide whether you will stay in the World Group next year, or fall back to your respective Europe/Africa Zone Group I. There definitely won’t be a Swiss-Spanish semi-final happening this year.

You are not pissed off anymore. I could tell from your reactions on court, from all the smiles and giggles with Stan. You looked like ones who accepted their fate as the match was coming to its conclusion. Letting the steam out yesterday helped, as well, I believe. There is no anger but resignation left as the burden has been lifted off your shoulders.

Following another dinner with your team, we are taking a walk in the light snowing at night, hand in hand discovering more of the idillic view of the town.

You are silent, until—

“Don’t you think _dead rubber_ is the stupidest expression in sports?” you ask, looking at me, warm sparkles are dancing in your eyes.

I don’t know what to say or do, so I only give you a tentative grin. That is all you need to see and you are cracking up, and soon the echo of our laughter bounces back from the brick walls of the empty streets.

You will be more than okay without the Davis Cup responsibilities for the rest of “your big year”.

* * *

** Fribourg, Switzerland, 12th of February, 2012 **

We are sitting in the sports hall to witness the USA to win the last two rubbers. It’s painful but predictable after knowing the first days’ results; 0-5 to the United States, a clean sweep. There is not much to do about it. Yet, I am impressed by the Swiss crowd who stay all day long to show their support, regardless of the outcome. They cheer on their players alongside you, their hero.

It is a nice day, despite of Switzerland losing big time, with tennis and great atmosphere at the venue and we enjoy it until, close to the end of the second match of the day, I am called in to a meeting room by a local handler. You are accompanying me, being curious of what can be that much important.

When we step in the room, I instantly know. Surprise; an out-of-competition drug test!

I get nauseous.

“That’s random,” you say, lamenting, while I’m giving both urine and blood samples.

“I no think so.”

You immediately understand my meaning, I can tell from the face you make. I suspect it’s happening because of the French allegations. Otherwise we scarcely face these kind of testings off court.

“That would be disgusting,” you state, never lowering your voice, so the WADA workers also know your opinion on this. “Though I’m not shocked, it would be so typical.”

The lady, labeling my samples, clears her throat. “We are only doing our job, Mr. Federer,” she quietly says.

You look her in the eye and nod. “Yes, I’m sorry, our frustration with the system is not directed at you. It’s nothing personal. I’d just rather your bosses not getting their suspicions and targets from tabloids, you see! It’s obviously the case here.”

She apologetically shrugs one of her shoulders, packs their equipment, and saying bye, they leave.

“As if today was no bad enough before,” I mumble.

“Hey... let’s forget it and say bye to the guys! Then I’m taking you home. What say you?”

“Home?” My eyes are sparkling.

“Wollerau, sure. I’m going to have my way with you in the trophy room.”

The low murmur of yours lights the fire in me and I let out a little moan, inching closer to sniff the hot skin of your neck. You kiss my temple and the tension is leaving my body in the form of a content sigh.

The nightfall finds us entering your apartment at Lake Zürich. I have always been fond of the view from the enormous terrace, but I don’t have time to go and have a look at it at the moment. You kick the main door shut with your foot, drop the bags you carried and shed your jacket and manage to kick your boots off whilst heading toward the aforementioned room. I stand here rooted to the floor, watching you, until you turn around and as though you were reminded of something important, you reach back to catch my hand in yours. A gentle smile plays around your lips but the look you give me is feral.

“Time to use the sofa we had attached since last time!” you say, and pull my jacket off, letting it drop to the floor behind me. “You were fidgeting so much in the car...” you go on, reaching for the fly of my jeans, undoing it and with the same smooth slide of your hand, cupping my balls and giving my hardening cock a squeeze.

I lean into you for support.

“Were you thinking of this, Rafa?”

“Sí,” I sigh when you give another pull on my erection.

“Follow me!” you say, and releasing me, you walk into the trophy room, dropping all the remaining clothes on your way.

When I wake up from my dazed state and enter the room, you are sitting on the sofa, with your back leaning comfortably to the backboard of it. You are completely naked; eyelids are closing and opening again, slowly, lazily, while looking at me with a little smile playing on your lips. Palms are caressing your thighs, sliding down to knees, then back up, reaching the hips again. You move, widening your legs, giving me a perfect sight of heavy balls and hard cock, pointing forward.

I swallow, my Adam’s apple bounces in my throat. „Rogi…” I squeak.

You smile and flick your lower lip with the tip of your tongue playfully. „What are you still waiting for, Raf?” The question is quiet, though I can hear it just perfectly. I step in the room, closing the door behind me, and get rid of all my clothes within a few seconds. Not wasting any more time, I walk to you and climb on the furniture. When I straddle your thighs, our cocks slide together, pearly drops of pre-come meet and mingle while we are embracing.

Your arms are curling around me, cupping my arse cheeks and pulling me closer into an even more intimate position, while I am petting the curly hair on your chest possessively, pressing my palms onto your nipples repeatedly, until they are standing erect. You start hissing, being overstimulated and feeling the slightest of pain.

You bend your head back to the board and I lean closer, sniffling the scent at your neck, inhaling it deeply and breathing it out in a content sigh.

Grinning, you bring me even closer, so our chests are resting against each other, and we are staying still like that, only existing inside the other’s personal space, nesting faces in bushes of hair, until we cannot recognize anymore where ends the younger body, and where the older begins.

I could only lie here like this until the end of my days, no matter if I never get off again.

“Having you practically crawled under my skin is making me the most pleased man alive,” you murmur and I melt into you even more if that is possible.

Having soon enough of the calm though, I nuzzle into your neck and start to fidget. The movements bring our cocks come into touch again and it elicits a desperate, mewling sound from me. You chuckle.

“Submission at its finest,” you whisper into my ear, then you kiss the shell and push my upper body a bit farther from your own. Raising my head and looking around I admit this room rather intimidates me.

“But you have an equally filled one at home,” you remind me, and cupping my jaw with an iron grip, you touch my lower lip with your mouth and place gentle bites on it, then suck it inside. A guttural moan escapes my throat and you fasten your lips on mine, kissing me the first time since I had entered the room. You pull me close, so my arms are trapped between our naked bodies and I can’t move, only grind my lower half into you, while you are sucking on my tongue with mindblowing force.

At first I’m fighting for dominance as much as my position allows me, trying to catch your fierce tongue and you let me play a bit longer. However, when you grab my butt again, I sink in the thinner but just as strong arms and surrender completely, knowing who wears the so-called pants this time.

Releasing me, you sign with your hand for me to turn around, and I do as I was told.

“On your knees, Rafi… lean on the board! That’s it!” Your voice is out of Heaven, surely mesmerized by the sight of my body leaning and stretching before your eyes, ass moving in position, sticking up in the air, waiting for something delicious to happen at long last. You see how all my limbs are shaking by now, being barely able to hold up. Therefore, you bend forward, smoothing my arms down, bringing them to lie on the back of the sofa, my thighs getting widely open by the position.

I am moaning from the smallest contacts and you can’t help it, you answer every wanton sound with one of your own. You touch my shoulders with feather-light fingers and I hiss. You caress my back up and down with your palm and I groan. You shower my skin with oh-so-sweet kisses all down to my ass and I growl out my frustration.

This is our music; this is how we compose together. You play me like your most precious of all the instruments – or racquets, for that matter; I, replying your touches, moving, grinding, writhing – creating the exquisite melody, and writing all the lyrics to it by the voice of my ancient instincts.

My frantic moves stops and body tenses for a long moment when your tongue laps on my butt, sliding into its crack to find the hidden hole, digging the tip inside only the slightest bit. This brings back my noises; even words come now.

“Por favor, Rogi,” I sigh out, and not even your strong hands keeping my thighs still, can hold me back from pushing myself backward into your hot face, demanding more tongue inside.

You grunt out a sound of disapproval but do not stop, lead your tongue in me again, pushing beyond the muscular ring that kept you outside until now.

Chanting your name and also unrecognizable nonsense, I am trashing about, feeling my orgasm already building fast and so early. I slide one hand under me and want to touch my aching cock badly but you notice and bat my fingers away. My cock stays there, untouched, abandoned, leaking pre-come onto the couch in massive amount, after every thrust of your tongue.

When saliva pours down on my thighs and you move two fingers inside of me, I shriek and let out my begging voice.

“¡Basta, Rogelio!” I say, and then add a whispering “Mucho más…”, too.

You still. Wiping your mouth in the back of your palm, you snicker. “Now which one, Baby? Enough or more?”

But you already know the answer and without further words, you lift me up and scoot closer to from behind. Your hard cock bumps into my hole and pre-come is mixing with drool around my entrance. I am loosened; your engorged with blood head is penetrating my body right away, without any resistance.

„Ah,” I breathe out and flushing my torso to your chest, I impale myself on your penis with one smooth movement. My head is bent back, resting on your shoulder; my whole body is arching, enjoying the feeling of being so full and finally complete.

„God, Rafael…” you grunt, trying hard to keep your composure and not to come right then and there, just from that action of mine. You are biting down on my shoulder, sinking teeth into the skin, breaking the surface and drawing some blood onto it. The harsh smell and coppery taste calm you down a bit and you feel yourself strong enough to move.

So you do, pulling your cock out and shoving it back inside, instantly knowing you hit my secret bundle of pleasure when I howl loud and turn my face toward you, biting your jaw blindly and apparently painfully.

“Fuck, Rafa!” you shout, and answering my shaky “Yes”, you are doing just that, begin to fuck me earnestly, keeping me in pose and pumping into me imperiously.

My arms fly backward, fingers plunging themselves into your by now messy hair, clutching for dear life.

“Roger… Roger…” I am repeating the name to the rhythm of your thrusts, and you are bending me forward, palming my sweat-coated back and buttocks, watching how your cock is disappearing in my body.

The new angle gives new sensations; I keep babbling, moaning, mewling, it is all that can be heard in the room and the noises of sliding on the fabric now and again. Our bodies are bathing in sweat; yours is dropping onto my back from your forehead in the form of tiny pearls.

You reach under me again and say, “Up now!”

I obey, my back is against your well-formed chest once more and you turn your face toward me and kiss me with all your worth, tongues drill deep inside mouths, battling, sharing smacking sounds and so much saliva that it is pouring down on both of our chins. I catch it with my tongue and suck it in, swallowing, then lick my own lips, gathering all the drool from there, too. You can only growl before I am fastening my lips again on yours and suck on them harshly, pulling it almost painfully. You are thrusting in me, hips never falter to slap against my ass and your cock constantly hitting my prostate.

“Así, Rogelio,” I moan the words out in a broken voice.

Then your right hand is already seeking for my cock, not touching its length, only reaching under it and fondling my balls gently, then squeezing them with some more force. Your movements are very hard now; with all power you want to chase me into an orgasm, without a single touch on my cock. You want to feel me come undone, badly, that much is obvious.

The thrusts are becoming frantic, and though you hardly can keep your composure anymore, you concentrate hard on not to slacken the pace.

My whimpering sounds tell you I am just seconds away from release and you shove into the hot, slick tunnel once more, twice… and I slump backward, my frame in a curve, mouth hung open in a silent scream and the first string of white come squishes onto the sofa. You slide your hand up, holding my cock upward and directing it to my belly and chest, coating the skin there with my juice. The aftershocks shake me for long moments and you stay motionless, letting me enjoy them and cool down a little.

“Rogi…” I whisper raggedly, a slight smile appearing on my lips. I must look thoroughly debauched, wanting to melt into your body.

But you push me onto the board again and still feeling some contracting inside, you pump your aching cock home a couple of times, then lean over me and ride out your own orgasm, clenching on my arms for support, spilling all you have into me.

“Raf…” you utter after gaining some conscience again, your one single word sort of answering to me saying your name before.

The two names mean everything: our thank you’s, our ‘I love you’s, our contentment inside the other, joining the two bodies, making the two halves of a soul one whole again.

I am sliding from under your weigh slowly, forcing your spent cock leave my body and we stretch out on the furniture beside each other, smiling and still heaving from our lovemaking.

I squint at the shelves heavily packed with the material proofs of all you have achieved in your impressive career so far. They are not crowding me anymore.

“I should put a little Rafa statue there, too,” you say with your trademark giggles.

“Sure I am your most valuable trophy,” I chuckle back.

“We managed to ruin a brand new canapé again.”

“We talented, no?”

“Greatests of all time.”

And with the dirty sofa in the trophy room, our day is complete.


	6. Chapter Six

** Madrid, Spain, 13th of February, 2012 **

We spend a lazy morning in Zürich but then busy schedules are calling and we part ways – you leave for the Netherlands and I for Spain.

Early in the evening, I am sitting in the set of a television show and talking about you, as long as they ask me to. I could do it for hours and hours. It makes my heart dully ache, though.

“I miss you, too,” you say, your voice silky and warm in the phone when we talk later.

I am in bed with my laptop open, reading your new blog entry while you are still in the line.

“Rafaless? You have too much time on your hand, Rogi, when I no there. Soon you become a blogger, no?”

You only huff and I can hear your smile. “Tell me about your day! “

I close the laptop, put it aside and sink deeper into the sheets, finding a comfortable position.

“You know my day, Rog, you know what I did. What you want to hear?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Tell me about the worst part of it!”

“Worst is that you are away,” I reply with no further thinking. It is too easy.

You giggle. “Okay, then tell me about the best part! And don’t say it’s now, talking to me!”

“Best was… I got the keys to the house in Dominican Republic, remember? They showed me the building, it is beautiful and the sea is beautiful and they want me to visit very soon, to officially give it to me, you know, and I think we can go before the American swing, no?”

There is silence on your end of the line now.

“Only if you think it good too,” I tentatively add.

“I like the idea, Rafi, I just can’t really tell yet if it’s feasible. We will see to it, I promise!”

We are chattering on about nonsense way past midnight, when you say you are exhausted and in the need of sleeping. We say good night and hang up. I turn my lights off and curl up in the bed, pulling the blanket on my head and wishing to dream of you.

* * *

** Madrid, Spain, 14th of February, 2012 **

You are training around noon and call me just after, from the arena, telling me you very much like the photos of the supermodel _Bar Refaeli_ and me that came out to public today. It is such old news now; we had the photo shooting last year in Montreal. I suddenly don’t remember them and when I do, and hear your not very subtle voice praising my looks, I blush so hard I’m afraid the area around me will get red, as well.

“Err… She pretty, no?” I try to beat it with blatant stalling, but you are not having any of it and burst out of laughing.

“I have no idea, Raf!” you say. “It’s not like I actually looked at her, you know! All I see is this young man who is very, very beautiful, even if a bit too shiny due to Photoshop. It was a nice thing to wake up to on Valentine’s Day!”

I sigh into the phone and tell you I don’t like to always be apart on such days.

“You won’t go girly on me and whine about this, ja?” you ask.

“Why no? Is lovers day, no? We are lovers!”

You suck in a breath. “Oh, man, you mean that! And I didn’t prepare anything nice!”

“Pfft! My heart will no break, no worry, Rog!”

We hung up soon and I’m happily snickering at the thought of the gift you will receive when you are back to your hotel room.

I have little time to think of it though because I’m going to an official visit to the Prime Minister in _Moncloa Palace_ , then later to King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofía in _Zarzuela Palace._

I have enough trouble with choosing the right suit and tie and socks and shoes and all, and then when I meet up with Ferru and Albert, endure their teasing about you rubbing off on me. They are horrible like that but I don’t care much, it’s so good to present the Davis Cup we won in December to the royalty and joke around with the King himself. He is such a funny guy, if one is allowed to say that!

When I’m back in the hotel from the meeting, you call me again, laughing in awe.

“You just sent me flowers, you romantic fool!” you say and I shrug sheepishly, though I know you can’t see it. “And this Love All card is… How did you even find it?”

“You like?” I ask.

“Very much, Rafa!” you answer and you sound genuinely surprised and touched. “I… uhm… really, it’s beautiful! I am standing here, staring at this giant basket of roses for the last half an hour.”

I hear shuffling and sniffing and you say they smell good and the card smells of me.

For a heartbeat, I think you are going to lose it and start to cry or something equally dramatic. But you only say you miss me so much. I can hear there is a lump in your throat and now I think I’m going to cry instead.

“I am back tomorrow, Rogi…” I begin when I hear a discreet knock on the door. “Wait!” I ask you and walk to the door, asking who it is.

A woman’s voice replies that she has a package for me, so I open the door and take it.

I kick the door shut and go back to the couch and crash on it, then look at the box I have just received. It’s in red wrap and there is a shiny band around it with the name Lindt printed in golden letters.

I gasp and hear you giggle at the same time. You obviously heard all the exchange with the delivery lady.

“If that is what I think it is, then I call it perfect timing,” you say, tone pleased.

“It is a red box from Lindt, Rog, and I not know who sent me this!” I say and start to giggle.

“You are funnier than ever. Wanna open it?”

I do and find tiny heart shaped truffles inside, along with two envelopes.

“Leave my letter for last!” you ask me, so I tear the more official looking open and read it loud.

 

**_Dear Mr Rafael Nadal,_ **

**_We are honoured to fulfil the wish of Mr Roger Federer to prepare and deliver our products for You._ **

**_We are hoping they will find You in good health and sweeten this special day for You!_ **

**_We wish You the very best for the rest of the year!_ **

**_With kind regards,_ **

**_Chocoladefabriken Lindt & Sprüngli AG_ **

 

You are laughing in my ear at the business tone of it but then you fall silent and serious.

“Wait with the other letter, please! Until I’m gone, right?”

I find it a bit unnerving, not that I have to wait, but more the underlying intentions in your suddenly serious voice. I obey anyway.

“Sí, Roger. But I can eat, no?”

Your giggling is back. “Let’s say bye then! I need to get ready for a press meeting.”

My mood falls a bit by this but I try not to show it and you are too entertaining anyway while saying goodbye, so I don’t feel down for long.

“Gracias,” I tell you before we hung up, and you reply, “Merci”.

I can’t wait to pop the chocolate in my mouth but I can wait even less to know what is in the envelope with my name in your handwriting on it. I don’t just tear it; I actually use the opener the hotel offers so I won’t ruin it.

I get goose bumps when more of your neat handwriting appears and curls into the first words of the letter.

 

_**My beautiful Rafael,** _

_**It is November now, I am here at the chocolate factory, and in a while, I’m going to open this new shop for them.** _

_**I can’t have the slightest idea what will happen to us in the next three months. But one thing I know for sure. We will still be stuck together in good and in bad, no matter what it is.** _

_**So this is the reason of me being daring and preparing your gift for Valentinstag so early.** _

_**These chocolate hearts were made by my own hands for you and I’m sure there is no more special recipe in the world, because beyond all the secrets the factory have, I also added my own heart to it, and poured my love into it.** _

_**Think of me when it’s melting on your tongue!** _

_**Happy Valentine’s Day, Rafi!** _

_**Forever yours,** _

_**Roger** _

 

I read it once, and then read it again. For the third time I can’t see it from the tears in my eyes so I half blindly fish for my phone and type a text to you.

**’Who is romantic fool & liar? U R !!!! :) :) :) :)’**

My mind flashes back to everything that happened in the last three months, to all the happiness and despair, to all the things during the Australian Open, too. I realize it only now that I never feared we wouldn’t sort it out, I never doubted us, not even when I couldn’t bear to look you in the eyes. As much as you seemingly never thought we could ever separate again, whatever comes in our way to fight down.

Your reply comes very late, in the form of a third call of the day.

We are both in bed and whispering in the phones as if anybody could hear us.

I tell you I love you, and I ate almost all of the truffles.

You tell me you love me, and you sniff the roses every time you pass the table they are placed on.

One minute we are talking, the next you are softly breathing into my ear and I know you are asleep.

I leave the line on and listen to you until I’m gone, too.

* * *

** Rotterdam, the Netherlands, 15th of February, 2012 **

The first thing I check today – after the text message of you wishing me good morning – is your blog. Somehow I had a feeling there would be something to see and I feel you a bit closer through your silly writing. And indeed, here it is. You clearly woke up sometime in the middle of the night.

I well up a bit at this. But soon I start to laugh because it is by far your shortest entry; still it had gained the most comments in such short hours since posting.

**‘U r like a rose, no? Nice blog.’** I quickly text to you before my long day of running sucks me completely in.

I practise in the morning, and in the middle of it, Tio Toni arrives in tow with Team Babolat for whom I am doing some racquet testing. It would be very exciting, even fun, if my mind wasn’t slipping forward to the afternoon. I still try hard to stay patient and repeat the movements over and over again, follow their lead, occasionally giving my opinion and insight on the feeling of the different shots with varied settings.

When we are finally done, I’m rushing back to my hotel to get my bags. Toni is not happy with my focus shifting too fast and even less pleased when I tell him not to be in a hurry to follow me. He says I am being insolent but I couldn’t care less; I’m out of Madrid as fast as it is possible and on my way to Rotterdam – to you.

It takes almost three hours to reach my destination and I’m kind of tired and anxious when entering the arena. Richard Krajicek, the tournament director greets me, along with two bodyguards, proudly informing me that I am going to need their escorting because of the massive crowd circulating inside the building of Ahoy. He also says I can wait with getting my pass if I want to see you first. For sure I do. It is around five o’clock so we are heading to the practice court and with every step I see more and more people and at the court itself it’s pure insanity how many of them are there to get at least one glimpse of you. My guards are hardly able to get me through the mass and when we are finally close enough, the first I see are your broad shoulders and flying locks.

As usual, my arrival doesn’t stay unnoticed and after you play the actual point and surely hear my name whispered from courtside, you turn and stop at track for a moment. Broader then shoulders your smile is when our eyes lock together. In the next second, you are jogging towards me and not caring about the watchful spectators, soon sweep me in your arms. I melt into you and breathe your special odour in.

“Missed you so much,” you murmur into my neck, then we part and share a quick and innocent kiss that lights fire inside me. I want so much more, until—

“Warm me up, Rafael!” you ask with an adorable smile and I am straightaway convinced.

I come to the benches with you and strip to track pants and t-shirt. Realizing what is about to happen, excitement sweeps through the spectators. They rapidly click away for the next 15 minutes while I’m taking you through the methodical shots that get your body and mind ready for the upcoming match. It is another chance to stare and admire your smooth dance, so much that one of your serves hits me on the shoulder, for the great amusement of the audience.

“Lemme see!” you say, back in the locker room, and peel the shirt off me to reveal the red spot the ball had left in my skin. “Aww… stinging?”

It doesn’t; it’s really not a big deal, but as I perfectly know what is in your mind, I nod.

“I make it up to you,” you say and we simultaneously get rid of all our clothes.

You grab the towels and toiletries and pull me into the showers. Our bodies slide together in a perfect rhythm under the spray of water; soapy hands are touching each other everywhere; your tongue licks over the reddened patch of my left shoulder until we are both satisfied and eventually clean.

You are in such a good mood, a jokey mood, causing a bit of a scare to the waiter guy at the players’ lounge when you order gluten free pasta for a pre-competition meal. I can barely stifle my grin.

“Chill, Jon, I’m kidding!” you wink to put him to ease, and he is rushing to bring you the usual pasta with some mild tomato sauce and cheese. Of course, you know most of the staff members by name.

In the same good mood, you defeat Nico Mahut 4 and 4 in the evening session – never in doubt. You had not played here in Rotterdam in the last seven years so everyone and their grandmas came out to see you. It is a pleasure to experience the standing ovations when you enter the court as well as when you leave.

You are grinning like a fool all night and say, everything is different and all right when I am here with you. We order dinner from the room service because you don’t want to go out, and as you have a bit of cold (cool conditions in Holland), I make tea to soothe your stuffy nose and mild coughing. Despite of constant travelling, hence never really settling down at one place, it is as domestic as it can get. For a day or two, or a couple of weeks, we create little homes wherever we go.


End file.
